


Smoke

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Gen, Smoking, The Captain is Autistic (Ghosts TV 2019), World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 14:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: And the pipe, it turned out, had a more unforeseen use. The stem of it, resting firmly in his mouth, had a strangely soothing effect. If he held it just so, he found it was easier to join in with the chaps and their jesting. Conversation, something he’d always lacked skill in, was less demanding with the grounding feel of his teeth pressed against the pipe.The Captain neveractuallysmokes his pipe.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Some background to this small character study: I was watching Redding Weddy and thinking about the Captain with his pipe, and how he's such a health nut that I can't imagine him enjoying tobacco much. Then I thought well, what if he doesn't smoke it? I deal with my anxiety a lot by chewing things and Cap seems to me to be quite an anxious soul. So I wrote this character study and realised that, without me exactly aiming for it, the Captain has quite a lot of autistic coding in this little study. 
> 
> Full disclosure that although I do have some experience working with autistic children, I am not autistic. So I consulted a lovely autistic friend to read over the fic and give me their opinion on it. They encouraged me to post it, and tag it accordingly too, but if anyone would like to discuss anything that comes up here, please talk to me in the comments.

It had all started in the Great War, when each man was given his ration of cigarettes. 

He soon realised that Mother had been right that the cigarettes were filthy things. They made his head ache, and he resolved not to smoke them. But they were handy to have. It was easier to make friends, or at least easier to talk with the other chaps if there were cigarettes to share. He soon got the reputation of being the man to go to if you were running short. He’d never been more popular. 

Then the war ended, and all those chaps went home to their wives and sweethearts. But he stayed, because he didn’t know what else to do, and Mother said that being a soldier obviously suited him. He was a second lieutenant by then and he could no longer trade cigarettes for conversation. But the other officers smoked pipes, packed with tobacco, and _they_ shared their pouches around. 

If he was clever, he could make it seem as though he was smoking himself, and then generously pass his pouch around for the other men to share. They welcomed him in the evenings, marvelled at his never-ending supply of tobacco. And they never knew he never took a single lungful of it himself. 

And the pipe, it turned out, had a more unforeseen use. The stem of it, resting firmly in his mouth, had a strangely soothing effect. If he held it just so, he found it was easier to join in with the chaps and their jesting. Conversation, something he’d always lacked skill in, was less demanding with the grounding feel of his teeth pressed against the pipe.

“You’ll rot your insides, the amount of that you get through,” the old major told him, disapprovingly. After that, he tried to cut down on the times the pipe was resting in his mouth. 

But the years passed, and men moved on, and then he was a captain. And no one cared if he ever lit the pipe or not. He’d had to replace it over the years, as stems not built for chewing were worn away by anxious bites. But it seemed a small price to pay for something that made his mind clearer and his heart a little less frantic. 

He did use it less in front of the men, now that he was in charge. He had a good example to set, after all. But when he was alone, working at his desk, the pipe would inevitably end up between his teeth. And on his solitary walks too, if the day had been fraught. If he ever sat with Lieutenant Havers and the Second Lieutenant, Dunston, he’d bring out the pipe while they smoked cigarettes. To be sociable, and not because something about more casual encounters with Havers threw him off balance.

And now he is dead, and Havers and Dunston are gone, and the Captain couldn’t smoke the pipe even if he wanted to. But at least he died with his pouch around his neck, tucked discretely beneath his shirt, the pipe nestled within. He never takes it out when he’s with his fellow ghosts. They know, of course, that he couldn’t possibly be smoking it, and would understand immediately that he had it solely for comfort, like a child with a blanket. That wasn’t the sort of thing a man could come back from. Julian would never let it go, for one. 

But on days when the close quarters of Button House life is too much, the Captain steals away to his room, or the attics, or goes out on patrol, and he slips the pipe from beneath his jacket and bites down hard on the ghostly stem. It’s as familiar and real as the scratch of his uniform or the cool leather of his swagger stick. 

One evening, they are watching a film in which a character smokes a pipe, and Robin unexpectedly announces to the room, “Captain smoke pipe. Before he died”

“Mr Clean Living smoked tobacco?” Julian asks. “You hypocrite. What did you say to me about –”

“It’s not the same as what you got up to Julian,” Pat interjects, stopping the argument before it can begin. “Lots of people used to do it back then, right Cap?”

“Yes, quite. Didn’t – er – had no idea it was bad for the health. Beastly thing.”

For the rest of the film, he feels the weight of the pipe resting heavy against his chest. 

Like a dog with a bone, Robin can be, and when the evening ends, he comes to find the Captain in his room. 

“No fire in your pipe,” he says, without pre-amble. “Me remember fire, always. But you have no fire in it. Why?”

“Were you watching me?” the Captain asks needlessly. Of course Robin was watching him. They always watch the living. 

Robin shrugs. 

“Tobacco is disgusting,” the Captain says, relenting. “Never liked the taste. But I had to – it’s just how things were done. Something for me – for chaps to do with their hands.”

Robin nods and seems about to leave when he fumbles in his fur and pulls out a stone, seemingly from nowhere. It sits in his palm and he holds it out for the Captain to see. It is perfectly round but also perfectly, unnaturally smooth. It’s been held, and worried at for years before it came to be a ghost. 

Robin doesn’t say anything, but when the Captain glances up, their eyes meet and Robin grins before the stone disappears back into his fur. 

Then he leaves and the Captain slowly removes his pipe from the pouch.

It is a relief he can hardly name when it is firmly clamped between his teeth once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Tia, for your patient help!


End file.
